In a world where the breeze is deemed a bureaucrat of the skies, it files through the valley with reports on leaf positions and pollen gossip.
A single leaf floats down, an unemployed banker seeking investments in the trust of the earth. Meanwhile, the winds conspire to never pay taxes. How ironic!
The trees, steadfast citizens of this realm, hold meetings to discuss the breeze's unpredictable policies—laws that surely need no enforcement but enforced they are nonetheless.
Consider the whispers of the atmosphere: transient, untraceable. Like a politician's promise, they carry warmth in winter but chill in summer's oppressive glare.
Elusive, the breeze escapes like a thought unbidden, yet undeniably present—a reminder of what is missed when one's head is buried admiring the soil.